


Living with the Black Dog

by Espoir



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Discussions of Suicide, Domestic, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Puppies, but then!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6571510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espoir/pseuds/Espoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ariadne hasn't seen Arthur and Eames in nearly a year, and she's missed them both. Except, every time she tries to meet up with them Eames is absent, and it takes her much longer than she'd like to work out why.</p><p>In which there are tears, Deep Meaningful Chats, Churchill references and, eventually, puppies.</p><p>---</p><p>“Are we talking terminal?” Ariadne asks, her voice rising in panic, because she was right to worry, everyone takes the fucking piss out of her but she this time she was right-</p><p>“No!” Arthur sounds appropriately horrified and Ariadne abruptly feels like she’s no longer going to have a heart attack, “God no, Ari, it’s nothing like that- we’d tell you if it was. I think, I think it’s just better if he talks to you. Try not to worry.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living with the Black Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhubarbgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhubarbgirl/gifts).



> Backstory for this, Ariadne is staying with her sister in Oxfordshire under the guise of working research for a job but mostly because she hasn't seen Arthur and Eames in years and she misses them.
> 
> AN: Some not very fun themes are discussed in this, so please heed the tags as warning. I wrote this for my best friend who was having a difficult time, but an awful lot of my own experiences of depression are in this too. It really isn't much fun, and I have found it quite difficult to talk about, so I've shoved that onto Arthur and Eames as a way of reconciling it all in my head. Fictional puppies for my fictional faves help <3 Comments always hugely appreciated and 110% responded to, especially on this due to the subject matter.
> 
> 'If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew  
> To serve your turn long after they are gone,  
> And so hold on when there is nothing in you  
> Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on''

Ariadne has missed London.

Leicester Square is packed with Saturday shoppers and so she’s fought her way out of the crush of the crowd into the park, leaves crunching beneath her feet. It’s been a cloudy day up until now, but as she nears the central fountain the sun finally filters through the grey and Ariadne tilts her face up towards the sudden warmth, closing her eyes.

“Make the most of it,” a familiar, measured voice says from behind her, “we’re forecast weeks of fucking rain after this." 

Ariadne beams, turns round and barely has time to register the immaculate burgundy scarf and navy pea coat before she’s tackling Arthur into a fierce hug. It’s been nearly a year and god, she’s missed London but she’s missed _him_ more. 

Arthur smells like expensive cologne and black coffee and faintly of a fruity shampoo that reminds her of Eames and Ariadne revels in it, embarrassing herself with a few tears before they separate. 

“You look terrible,” she says, grinning. He looks fucking fantastic.

Arthur raises an eyebrow and neatens his scarf with gloved hands. It’s not even that cold yet, but Arthur is just the type to take any excuse to break out the winter wardrobe. 

“Wish I could say the same for you,” he says, “but the hair really suits you.”

Ariadne goes to self-consciously sweep her hair over onto one shoulder, forgetting for the millionth time it’s no longer long enough.

She shrugs, shaking the cropped waves a little. “Aurielle persuaded me, and after I won the Pet Battle it only seemed fair.”

Arthur smiles knowingly, “I saw. I’m not much of a dog person, but I’ll admit Milo is pretty cute.”

“Of course he is!” Ariadne exclaims, “Oh man, I have so, _so_ many photos to show you two- he is my pride and _joy_. Mum is so in love with him she’s almost given up pestering me about grandchild. You’ll have to come visit, I know Eames loves dogs-" 

Arthur’s smile falls a little at Eames’ name, eyes suddenly losing their warmth, and that’s the first sign.

Ariadne abruptly realizes she was expecting to see the both of them this afternoon.

“Where is Eames?”

“I’m afraid he isn’t feeling well at the minute, so won’t be joining us. He sends his love in his absence.” And Arthur leans in to kiss her briefly on each cheek, just how Eames always does.

“He’s okay though right?” Ariadne asks, concerned. Eames doesn’t get ill.

Arthur smiles, but it’s as brittle as the leaves under their feet.

“He’s okay,” he agrees, but that’s all he says.

  

* * *

  

Ariadne is a worrier. She knows this. A ‘worry worrier’ as Aurielle calls her, or at least tries to, because her accent butchers the ‘w’s. It’s okay, Ariadne is used to it. She does the worrying when everyone else seems to forget to, that’s her job.

And as lovely an afternoon as she had with Arthur moseying around the Tate Britain and catching up on nearly a year’s worth of happenings, she can’t help but worry something is more wrong with Eames than Arthur let on.

“I thought you liked just seeing Arthur,” her sister says, and pauses mid-stirring of the casserole to attempt to waggle her eyebrows at Ariadne suggestively. It’s terrible.

Ariadne groans. “Please Helena for the love of god I am a happily engaged woman. Stop trying to set me up with him.”

“All I’m saying is that you’d have beautiful children,” Helena says in a song-song voice.

“Well that much is obvious,” Ariadne sighs, “but we’re not. Ever. Going to have children that is. The point is is that it’s weird to see just him. They’re just- a package, Arthur and Eames, you know?”

“You should embrace your friends as individuals Ari,” Helena intones, throwing a handful of thyme into the pot with a dramatic flourish, “they don’t come as an item.” 

“I _know_ that,” Ariadne should have known better than to go down this road with her older sister, “but _you_ don’t know Arthur and Eames. They’re- it’s-“

She tries to think of a way to put them into words. To articulate how she’s never met too more fierce individuals who gravitate around another so much. She wouldn’t call them co-dependent, just infinitely better together, mirroring each other’s movements without a second’s hesitation, constantly aware of the other even if they’re not letting it on, so in-tune with each other’s thoughts and reactions they can have whole conversations without saying a word.

Ariadne knows Aurielle. Has known her when she’s puking her guts out after too much tequila, knows how much the post arriving excites her, knows that without fail she will order the same thing every single time when they go out for Thai, knows her when she’s soft and sleepy in the morning, when she’s quiet and sad after the Mom dies in the movie-

Ariadne knows and loves Aurielle with a breadth and depth she didn’t think possible, knows that this marriage is the best decision she’s ever made, but in comparison to Arthur and Eames, in comparison to their shared history, the fact that Ari knows they’ve died in each other’s arms countless times, she and Aurielle are playing at love like children. Arthur and Eames are two inextricable halves of a beaten and cracked whole; they’re soul mates.

Helena seems to have finally picked on the fact Ariadne is not in the mood for teasing. She comes and drops into the chair opposite her.

“If you can’t see him, just call him. Or text him, if you’d rather.”

Ariadne goes back through her old text conversation with Eames and realizes they haven’t spoken in months. Eames has never been a great texter- his messages more the occasional essay of long continuous prose with no hope of punctuation- but his fierce love of emojis has always amused her.

She sends one off before she has too much time to think about it:

Ariadne (16:49) -  _loved catching up with Arthur yesterday. we missed you though ofc. feel better champ. Xx_

 

* * *

 

It’s late November when Ariadne makes the trip in from Oxfordshire again to see Arthur and Eames.

She loves Arthur, she really does, (she has never quite got over the crush she harbored when she first met him) but her heart falls a little when he cuts a lone stylishly dressed figure waiting for her on the platform at Paddington.

Arthur kisses her twice again, “one from Eames,” and he looks just a little sad again, in that distant way that Ariadne isn’t going to be able to get out of him.

“Still sick?”

Arthur nods. “He wanted me to ‘fondly slap you on the ass’, that’s a direct quote, but I, unlike him, am not disgusting.”

Ariadne laughs, and Arthur’s mouth twitches in that wonderfully familiar way it does when he’s trying to suppress a smile around Eames.

“I sent him a text. Haven’t heard back yet.” Ariadne has actually since sent Eames multiple texts, upping the emoji use in each one. 

“His phone is playing up at the minute so he might not have got them. I keep threatening to throw it away but he’s oddly attached to it.” Arthur doesn’t meet her eye and Ariadne has a strong suspicion that isn’t the whole truth of the matter.

But then Arthur smiles broadly and distracts Ariadne with plans for lunch and the afternoon and Ariadne, to her shame, forgets to ask about Eames again after that.

 

* * *

  

Ariadne finds a grossly tacky fruit basket online the next day with a huge helium balloon that says ‘ _Get Well Soon!!!!_ ’

“That’s disgusting,” Helena tells her from over her shoulder, “like, the number of exclamation points alone should be a capital offence. And is that Comic Sans? Really? It’s hideous.”

“And Eames will _love_ it,” Ariadne says cheerily, and puts in Arthur’s address.

 

* * *

 

Arthur texts her a few days later.

Arthur (10:04) - _Please tell me you are not responsible for the monstrosity that has just arrived on our doorstep_

Ariadne sends him three side-eyed emojis and can practically _hear_ Arthur’s sigh.

Arthur (10:06) - _I’m tempted to turn the deliveryman away_

Arthur (10:06) - _Fuck it I’ll pay him to take it away Ari it’s truly awful_

Arthur (10:07) - _Why is there star fruit? Who eats star fruit?_

Arthur (10:08) - _Apparently popcorn is also a fruit, this is news to me_

Ariadne laughs aloud to herself in Helena’s tiny kitchen. She sends a few love hearts and goes back to doodling penrose steps. Her phone buzzes a half hour later.

Arthur (10: 43) - _Eames wants me to tell you that you are ‘absolute poppet who none of us deserve to have as a friend’. He has already opened the popcorn._

Ariadne smiles. For now, it’s enough.

 

* * *

 

The next time Ari is in London she’s Christmas shopping, but she’s not a born and bred Londoner and can only handle Oxford Street for so long. After two coffee breaks to attempt to revitalize her it’s still only 11am and she’s officially done for the day. Her phone is dead so she decides on popping round to Arthur and Eames unannounced to kill time before her train home. If Eames is bed-bound, she reasons, she’ll risk whatever sickness he’s got for a hug. It really has been too long.

It’s not until she’s standing in Arthur and Eames’ tidy little kitchen that she realizes she might have made a mistake.

Eames is not bed-bound, but he looks like he should be.

He looks exhausted, pale and gaunt, as though he’s been under too long even though Ari knows that the two of them haven’t done a job since August. He’s scruffy and unkempt looking in holey sweatpants and when she wraps him in a tight hug she notices that under the soft, oversized hoodie he’s lost weight too, her arms almost completely encircling him.

Far worse than his appearance though, there’s something just… off.

Ariadne has been here 13 minutes and Eames hasn’t made a single innuendo. He also isn’t meeting her eye. 

“Sorry,” Eames says suddenly, and he gives a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, “I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll be terribly good company today. Arthur’s out getting groceries but he should be back soon.”

He sounds so _anxious._

“Don’t worry Eames, I just was coming to say hey, you don’t have to host me,” Ariadne assures him, trying to sound more at ease than she feels because Eames like this is anything but relaxing, “just a cup of tea will do.”

Eames’ face goes curiously blank, and then he nods. “Right, tea.”

Ariadne watches as he goes about the kitchen, putting the kettle on, getting the sugar out, and god, she wants to say something, wants to ask what’s wrong, but it feels like Eames is somehow incredibly fragile at the minute, all spun sugar and thin glass, and she doesn’t dare to speak less it push him over the edge he’s clearly teetering on.

It’s when Eames is pouring the kettle into two mugs that Ariadne realizes his hands are shaking, and it’s so discerning she finally stops trying to politely ignore how much this whole situation is screaming ‘wrong wrong this is so fucking _wrong_ ’ at her.

“Eames, here, let me-,” she offers, getting to her feet.

Eames jumps like she’s burnt him when she lays a hand on his arm and the milk spills out across the dark granite counter, soaking into the tea box and dripping down the counters.

“Shit,” Eames mutters, “fucking hell,” and then, quite suddenly, he’s laughing, hoarse and breathless.

Except, he isn’t actually laughing at all, and with a dawning sense of horror Ariadne realizes he’s _crying_. Great shaking, semi-silent sobs that shudder through his entire body. He leans over the counter and absolutely does not meet Ariadne’s eye.

Ariadne feels cold all over. “Oh god, Eames I’m so sorry, are you- are you okay? Did I hurt you? What’s wrong- what did I do??" 

The sobs turn back into something like a laugh and it’s almost hysterical, like Eames is high and out of control and he is muttering something over and over again under his breath and it takes Ariadne a moment to understand what he’s saying-

“- literally crying over spilt milk, over _fucking_ spilt milk-“ 

“Eames, hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m sorry,” and Ariadne is tearing up herself because this is awful, she’s never seen Eames cry, Eames is infallible, indestructible, a suave Bond figure eternally ready with the next innuendo, dreadful pun or sly side long look; Eames is solid and constant, the reliable one who Arthur depends on when he freaks out; Eames is the smart one, the lightning quick forger with far more secrets than the rest of them combined; Eames is anything but this shaking man in front of her now, a man Ariadne barely recognizes as the Eames she knows- 

Ari hears keys rattle in the front door, and suddenly Arthur is there, thank god, dark coat and darker hair sprinkled with flecks of snow, and he’s gently pushing Ariadne away, pulling Eames into a strong hug, murmuring soft reassurances Ariadne can’t quite hear-

And Eames is _still_ crying.

“- minus one Arthur, fucking minuses and it’s not even lunchtime yet god-”

Arthur shushes him, kisses his forehead, rubs a hand up and down his back and Ariadne is properly crying now as well, and feels very much like she’s intruding.

“I’m so sorry Arthur,” she says, feeling like she needs to explain, needs to apologize for tipping Eames over the edge, for traumatizing Arthur’s boyfriend, “I was just- Eames was making tea and then he spilt the milk and suddenly-“ 

“It’s okay Ari,” Arthur says, and his voice is quiet and strong, “it’s fine- you didn’t do anything. I just think we might have to see you another day if that’s alright.”

Eames says nothing, body tensing and turning his face into the side of Arthur’s neck like he’s trying to hide from her. It’s the most unsettling thing Ariadne has ever seen. She nods, not trusting herself to say anything more, and then, though she’s ashamed to admit it, she flees.

 

* * *

  

Ariadne gets a text from Eames the following day.

Eames (17:24) - _so sorry you had to see all that Ari it had been a Bad Day for me to say the least but your welcome to come round at the weekend if youd like- i would love to see you minus the dramatic waterworks._

Ariadne reads the text four times, chewing her lip, and then calls Arthur.

“Does he really want me over? Because I don’t have to come. I don’t want to impose or make things worse, I don’t want-” 

“You won’t make things worse.” Arthur interrupts, sounding fond, “it honestly is nothing you did. He just wasn’t ready for visitors; he’d had a rough few days.”

Ariadne swallows, twiddling the phone cord in her free hand.

“Arthur,” she says, almost not daring to ask, “what’s wrong with him?”

There’s a too long pause at the other end of the line. 

“Are we talking terminal?” Ariadne asks, her voice rising in panic, because she was _right_ to worry, everyone takes the fucking piss out of her but she this time she was _right_ -

“No!” Arthur sounds appropriately horrified and Ariadne abruptly feels like she’s no longer going to have a heart attack, “God no, Ari, it’s nothing like that- we’d tell you if it was. I think, I think it’s just better if he talks to you. Try not to worry.”

But Ariadne lives to defy that suggestion so commonly directed at her, so she organizes arriving at 10:30am on Saturday as it’s about as early in the time frame of ‘see you at the weekend’ as she can manage.

“Bless you,” Eames says, enveloping her in a huge hug on the doorstop, “Arthur says you were practically preparing my eulogy after your last visit.”

“Well what do you expect me to think!” Ari exclaims, “No one tells me _anything,_ but I knew something was wrong and Arthur was worried so I just jumped to the worst conclusion-“

Eames laughs, and it’s warm and familiar and wow, has it only been three days? He seems so much better.

“Arthur is very protective,” Eames confides, as though that wasn’t the worst kept secret of the Dream Share community, and he leads her over to the small, squashy sofa in their living room and pushes her down into it.

Eames settles himself next to her, and Ariadne notes that even though the smile is back, the dark circles under his eyes are still there. He looks like he needs to sleep for a month. 

“He also knows,” he continues, “quite rightly, I don’t like to talk about this much. We have more secrets than most in our relationship and in our line of work it’s best to keep things like this in a small circle.”

Eames passes her a ready made steaming cup of tea.

“A circle which obviously includes your good self.” 

Ariadne doesn’t say anything, but takes a dainty sip of her tea and watches Eames carefully over the rim. 

Eames seems to get the message, and he looks down, sighs and scrubs a hand roughly through his hair.

“I’m afraid I’m dealing with a spot of depression at the minute love,” he says, in a vaguely distant and self-deprecating sort of way as though he’s trying to avoid thinking about what he’s saying, “It’s unfortunately not the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last, but it does usually knock me for six as it were. Part of that ‘knock-back’, you witnessed the other day.”

In his left hand, his poker chip flips restlessly over his fingers. Ariadne doesn’t think she’s ever seen him this open, this vulnerable before.

“Oh,” she says, quietly, because of all things, _that_ , she had not expected. “But you- you’re- you never-" 

Eames smiles, a little sharply. “There’s no type when it comes to this sort of thing Ariadne dear, as I’m sure you know.”

Ariadne flushes, “of course, I’m sorry, I know that, it’s just- I wouldn’t have ever imagined it. Or thought it. About you. I know it’s relatively common but I’ve never known someone who has… dealt with it before.” 

They’re both avoiding saying the word, Ariadne realizes.

 _‘Always use the proper name for things Harry. Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself.’_ Dumbledore’s advice, in the somber voice of Stephen Fry from Aurielle’s audiobook, jumps suddenly to the forefront of her mind.

“I won’t lie,” Eames says mildly, “it really isn’t all that fun,” and his mouth twists like he’s going to say more. 

Ariadne stays quiet, feeling like Eames is about to get something off his chest.

“Some days,” Eames starts, “some days everything feels very… insubstantial. Like I’m made of candy floss or tumble weed, all air and no substance, not really caring about anything least of all myself. As if no one would notice if I just drifted off for a bit, and actually, I might do everyone a favour if I did.”

He says it so candidly, like this is such familiar territory, even as Ariadne tightens her grip on her tea cup enough that her fingers hurt.

“Other days,” Eames laughs darkly, though Ariadne gets the distinct impression nothing about this situation is funny, “I’m somewhat more _present_. But that’s usually just a whole a lot of feeling miserable, worrying too much and hating too much, again, myself more than others. Those days usually end in tears too,” and he gestures to her, “as you saw.”

“I know what it is, and rationally I know how to deal with it – but that doesn’t stop it unfortunately. The grey-tinted glasses stay firmly on. The future isn’t much worth thinking about, because most of the time it feels like I’m never going to get there. There are weeks on end where I’ll wake up and wish, _pine_ , that I could go straight back to sleep and never have to face the day. It’s a whole lot of not caring about anything, and yet, strangely enough, it’s very tiring,” Eames finishes, and the room is very quiet.

Ariadne reaches slowly across the space between them and touches her fingers to the back of his hand.

“It makes up for the rest of the time when you’re caring too much,” she says. 

Eames looks down at their hands, and then he smiles up at her a little, “it’s all very depressing really. But it is what it is. I’m still myself, just not really in service right now.” 

“It sounds like shit,” Ariadne says.

“It really is,” Arthur agrees, emerging from his office, “that I can definitely confirm.”

Ariadne moves closer and wraps her arms around Eames, dropping a kiss to his scruffy cheek.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says quietly. “And I’m sorry you’re dealing with such a shitty thing.”

Eames smiles, kisses her forehead lightly in return.

“Sorry for making you think you’d be attending my funeral before Christmas - in retrospect, a straight up conversation might have been better.” 

Arthur is tucking into a pot noodle at the kitchen bar and he nods, looks a little sheepish. “Yeah I am sorry about that Ari,” he says around a mouthful of noodles.

Ari sighs melodramatically, “Well, _actually,_ I think I deserve a little more than a verbal apology for the minor cardiac arrest you made me endure.”

“Would us ordering you Chinese in help?” Eames suggests.

“Eames, it’s not even 11am,” Arthur says, aghast.

“Coming from the man eating powdered noodles, _before 11am_ I might add _,_ your opinion is invalid.”

“I’m up for an early lunch,” Ariadne chips in. 

Eames promptly beams at her, “and I haven’t got around to breakfast yet, so brunch it is.”

 Ariadne stays for Chinese brunch which turns into her keeping Eames company in a lazy afternoon of binge-watching Friends, and then they end up ordering pizza for dinner. Arthur potters around the apartment getting on with work and pretending to despair at them, but when Eames pulls him one-armed into a kiss down on the sofa, Ariadne swears Arthur smiles a smile as wide as she’s ever seen on him.

 

* * *

  

It’s two weeks until Christmas and Arthur has to meet a contact in Windsor, so drops by Heathrow to see Ariadne off on her plane back to Montreal.

London is bright with lights and the bustle of Christmas shoppers and it’s bitterly cold in a way that Arthur loves; an abrupt contrast to the silent, warm darkness of their apartment.

Arthur goes straight to their room, shedding layers along the way.

It’s nearly 5pm and Eames hasn’t moved from their bed. The laptop Arthur set up hasn’t been touched; the books remain undisturbed. 

The canvas in the corner is still blank, and it upsets Arthur a little every time he see’s it. Eames hasn’t painted in a long time now. When Arthur had mentioned perhaps he should try it, as a therapy of sorts, Eames had laughed, cold and callous. “It’s as good as already painted; entitle it ‘artist’s emotions’ and sell it for a bomb- call it fucking abstract.”

Arthur hadn’t mentioned painting again after that.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asks the shadowy lump on the bed, his voice too loud in the dark quiet, pulling his tie free from his collar.

Eames doesn’t move.

“Tired,” he says eventually. Arthur knows Eames was asleep at just gone midnight the night before, but it’s been one of those days.

“Scale?” 

“Oh an ever optimistic 3 and half today.” Eames says, trying for sarcasm but it falls flat. Arthur pulls a face Eames can’t see. “Ariadne get off alright?”

“Yeah, she sends her best. Wants us to visit next Fall. I said we would, I think you’d love Montreal.”

Eames doesn’t say anything to that, and Arthur gets the distinct impression he’s not listening.

“I’m sorry she had to see me like this,” he says suddenly, an all too familiar vicious self-loathing creeping into his voice. 

Arthur closes his eyes, momentarily exhausted. The honest conversation Eames had with Ari and the afternoon of lounging around with her eating junk food and arguing over which of them is more like Joey is forgotten. It’s the bad stuff that stays. It always is.

Because that’s how Eames’ mind works right now.

“She’s our friend Eames,” he says quietly, “It’s okay. She understands.” 

“I’m not meant to be like this,” Eames mutters, and it’s like Arthur isn’t even here, “I know I’ve said before but I’m meant to be stronger than this.”

Arthur can hear the unspoken ‘ _stronger for you_ ’ that Eames is thinking. It’s stupid and irrational, and he’s told Eames this many times but he’ll tell him it again.

 “And with that,” he says, trying to keep his voice light, “the award for the dumbest thing said today goes to you, Mr. Eames, and that includes nominations from the girl in Costa who pronounced ‘machete’ ‘mack-cheat’.”

There’s a pause, and Arthur watches the strong line of Eames’ back tense under his t-shirt. Arthur sighs, and turns to his cufflinks.

“Your mother rang,” Eames says quietly.

Arthur stiffens. He's slightly surprised Eames even answered the phone.

Eames hasn’t spoken to his mother since last year, and that had ended terribly, terribly badly.

“She wants to know why we’ve been in London for 3 months-“

“-because we fucking _live_ here-,” Arthur’s seething already, and he’s unbuttoning his shirt so violently the buttons are at risk.

“- and why we’re not visiting for Christmas, _again,_ and what I’m doing with my life at the minute and why in general someone as spritely and gorgeous and promising as your good self is slumming it with someone as useless as me.” Eames reels it from memory and it hurts Arthur, physically hurts him because he can’t tell if those are his mother’s words or what Eames took away from the conversation.

Arthur can’t decide which is worse. 

“Eames,” Arthur says, throat tight, and he drops his pants and goes to sit next to him on the bed in his boxers, running a comforting hand down Eames’ side, “Eames you don’t need me to tell you that that’s utter bullcrap-“

Eames finally rolls over, eyes dark and levels him with an unreadable look.

“I don’t know love, maybe she’s got a point. Jump ship while the going is good. I wouldn’t blame you.” 

When Eames gets like this, the hatred towards himself only spans so far, and he ends up lashing out at other people. 

Except the only other person in his life, really, is Arthur.

Arthur pinches him. Hard. Hard enough that Eames winces and tries to curl away from Arthur’s hand on his side.

“Guess how much I care what my mother thinks about us Eames,” he says flatly, “Guess.”

Eames sensibly chooses not to answer that.

“And guess how much I care what you think?” Arthur is really fucking pissed all of a sudden, and his voice is shaking and thank god that’s enough to make Eames look up again. 

“A whole fucking lot, okay? We’ve had this argument so many times and I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. Ever. So don’t you _dare_ suggest that I should one day up and leave, okay, it’s not only fucking stupid and hurtful, it’s plain offensive, if I'm honest, that you think _that_ much of me-“

Arthur’s voice betrays him and cracks and Eames looks abruptly horrified, pulling himself up and reaching towards him.

Arthur doesn't let Eames see how upset this whole thing makes him, if he can. He doesn't want to make Eames feel guilty, feel worse. But this has been a while coming now.

“Arthur, darling-“

“No,” Arthur holds up a hand, pushes the hug Eames is offering away, “No. Answer me this: did you leave me when I had that panic attack on the Jefferson job? Did you?”

Eames’ face hardens with the memory. “Arthur you reacted to the compound and were bloody suffocating two levels down, I hardly think it’s comparable-“

“No, you didn’t, is the answer. It was all in my head, and I _knew_ that, but it didn’t stop me from freaking the fuck out and it didn’t stop you from staying with me." 

“Well, of course I-“

“And did you tell me to fuck off when I had that anxiety thing in the subway? Did you think I wasn’t worth your time then? That I was what, not manly enough for you?”

Eames looks aghast, like Arthur's committing some cardinal sin by bringing this up, and Arthur’s a bit surprised himself. They don’t talk about that night on the subway.

Two years ago three lines across New York were closed and they got caught in the evening commuter rush. Congestion was at an all time high and the crowds were _insane_ and Arthur has hated crowds, always has, and it had been a horrific week working a job that he hated and he and Eames had had the worst fight of their relationship only that morning, and in the awful, never ending crush of the crowd he’d coped for all of about 5 minutes before spacing the fuck out. 

It was a wonder he didn’t faint, but Eames had been there, argument forgotten, a solid, familiar wall keeping Arthur safe from the crush, reassuring him the whole time.

Arthur had been embarrassed at the time, but he wasn’t anymore.

“That wasn’t your fault-” Eames says gently. 

“And neither is this!” Arthur insists, “You didn’t ask for it; you can’t help it. It’s the same thing Eames. And it might be in your fucking head but just because we can’t bandage it up _doesn’t_ mean it’s any less valid but it also _doesn’t_ mean it isn’t going to get better. I’m fucked, you’re fucked- this whole world is fucked. But I’m with you for the long run so if you’d _please_ stop insinuating that I’m going to drop you at a moment's notice it’d be much appreciated. Because it’s fucking insulting is what it is.”

Eames looks distressed, forehead creased in anxiety, “Okay, of course, you’re right, I’m sorry love, I’m sorry-” 

“It’s okay,” Arthur interrupts, because he hadn’t really started this rant angling for an apology. “It is what it is. I’m just gonna be here for the whole of it, so you better get used to me calling you out on your shit.”

Eames nods, brow furrowed and he bites his lip. “It’s just-“ he says, frustrated, “it’s just so bloody annoying that I’m like this. I _hate_ it," the vehemence in his voice is almost frightening, “I hate it so fucking much.”

He drops his head onto Arthur’s shoulder and just like that Arthur knows he’s too tired to hate anymore today.

“I have spent all day,” Eames says, in a carefully measured voice, “thinking about how desperately badly I want to – to _not_ be anymore.”

Arthur’s heart skips a beat in his chest.

“Eames,” he says, and then stops because he honestly has no idea how he’s going to finish that. 

“And I know it makes no sense, I know I am lucky and fortunate and so fucking _blessed_ to have you, but I can’t help it love. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere.”

“Eames, you- you know what you’re saying right? You know what that-,” Arthur’s speaking so quietly it’s little more than a whisper because god, he didn’t think it had gotten this bad, he didn’t think Eames had thought about _this_.

Eames lifts his head a little, eyes impossibly dark.

“I know what I’m saying,” he says, softly, but also like this isn't anything new to him, like this is familiar ground, “and I know that me promising to never act on that thought, no matter how bad it gets, won’t stop you worrying, but I thought you should know.”

Arthur stares at him, helplessly. In the back of his mind he’s frantically cataloguing every weapon in the house, the illegal quantities of morphine in the bathroom cabinet, fucking hell even the bleach under the kitchen _sink_ and thinking how he’s got to be more careful, more careful than he’s ever been-

Eames is tearing up, just a little, and then he pulls Arthur back into his arms and hugs him so tightly it hurts. 

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and tangles his fingers in Eames and thinks _I’ve nearly lost you so many times. I’m not going to lose you to this._

“No one expects anything of you,” he says shakily into Eames’ chest, “no one wants anything of you. Not today and not ever. All you’ve got to do is keep going. And you will, I know you will, you’re going to make it through Eames, just like you’ve done before. And you’re not pathetic and you’re not worthless and I love you so _goddamned much_.”

They don’t say it often, but Arthur feels the breath catch in Eames’ throat, feels his arms tighten that little more, and Arthur knows he’s got through.

They lie there until the dusk turns to dark and the moonlight starts to grow shadows around the furniture.

They lie there until Eames’ tears stop and Arthur’s heart stops hammering, and they’re both no longer just holding on; they’re holding on to each other.

“What did you say to Ariadne?” Arthur mumbles, “that you’re 'out of service' for a bit?”

Arthur lifts his head and rests his chin on Eames’ chest to look at him. Eames nods, smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Arthur rolls his eyes, and it’s more for the familiarity of the gesture than anything. “You’re so English it hurts.”

He pauses. “But if you’re asking me the tube driver could do with a break anyway. You’re working him overtime by most accounts.”

Eames huffs a laugh. “Are you making metaphors about my brain?”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, and he rolls off a little to crawl under the covers, cool fingers seeking Eames’ warm sides, “would Trish approve?” 

There’s a slight pause. Arthur wonders if Eames has already had this whole ‘not being’ conversation with her. He doesn’t think so, but what Eames says to his therapist either way really isn’t his business. 

“Trish would very much approve,” Eames rumbles, smiling properly now, “I’ll give you full credit.”

“I should think so,” Arthur says, and he curls around Eames until he can’t tell where he ends and Eames begins. “Okay, now let me go to sleep.”

Eames laughs for real this time; Arthur feels it shaking through his chest. “It’s only just gone six love,” he mock-whispers.

“And are you one to judge on sleeping schedules? I think no.” Arthur says into the warm skin of Eames’ shoulder.

“This is true,” Eames concedes. 

Arthur starts to nod off, he was tired anyway but this last hour has completely drained him. He’s half in and out of consciousness when he feels Eames drop a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

“Goodnight, darling.”

 

* * *

 

It’s Christmas Eve, well gone 11pm and Arthur has finally convinced Eames to get out of the house and come on a walk with him. He’s better this week, a little more like his old self, talking about the job offers coming up, about whether they’ll make it over to visit Yusuf in the new year as well as Ariadne. When Eames gets animated about discussions about the future it’s always the first sign things are looking up.

That and when he starts initiating sex again.

Arthur has sent Eames’ therapist a fucking huge bouquet that had been far too expensive, but walking hand in hand with Eames along the rain-slicked pavements of Southbank Arthur knows it was money well spent. She doesn’t work miracles, but she’d managed to persuade Eames to try an anti-depressants (fucking _finally_ ) and in terms of the thoughts that have clearly been plaguing Eames when Arthur can’t help anymore Trish is there, and for that she’s an angel. 

It’s bitterly cold without the slightest hint of wind- like the world is waiting for Christmas with bated breath.

They don’t say much, but that’s okay.

Eames lights up a cigarette and because it’s Christmas (and because he secretly loves the smell of Eames’ stupidly expensive smokes) Arthur lets him. The tip glows bright in the cold shadows between street lamps, and Eames’ face is thrown into contrast each time he brings it to his lips. Across the river, the light of the Houses of Parliament reflect into the Thames, the moon hanging cool and constant just above Big Ben.

Arthur knows better than to ask how Eames is feeling. It’s a futile question at this point; a well-intended but ignorant one, coming from him especially. Eames has plateaued, for now, and that’s more than Arthur had hoped for this time a month ago.

Instead, he tangles his fingers in Eames’ a little tighter, and rubs his thumb across Eames’ knuckles. He’s losing the feeling in the tips of them without his gloves, but as bundled up in layers as they are, this is the only skin to skin contact Arthur can get; so he’s fucking well taking it. 

He’s suddenly aware of out of the corner of his eye of Eames staring at him, cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. Arthur raises a questioning eyebrow at him, and Eames shakes his head, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles. 

They walk along the bank, past the London Eye, Eames guiding Arthur around the persistent throngs of tourists, clutching tacky umbrellas and bags of last minute Christmas shopping and under Westminster Bridge until they’re directly opposite Parliament.

Eames looks out across the water at the winking lights, slowing them a little, and suddenly says;

“’I think this man might be useful to me – if my black dog returns. He seems quite away from me now – it is such a relief. All the colours come back into the picture.’”

Then he turns to Arthur and smiles again, a little sheepishly, and Arthur’s heart breaks just a tiny bit.

“You’ve got to stop reading Churchill,” he says.

Eames grins. “He was a grumpy old bugger but what can I say; we have a lot in common.”

Arthur looks skeptical. “Sure you do.”

Eames takes a breath, and then launches into reciting as many Churchill quotes, accent perfect, as he can think of, _“The price of greatness is responsibility._ ’ ‘ _If you're going through hell, keep going.’_ _‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that-“_

“Alright, alright,” Arthur deadpans, “you know Churchill, I’m impressed and overwhelmingly aroused.”

Eames beams at him fondly, and then leans over to kiss him on tip of his nose. Arthur can already tell it’s pink with cold.

“You, darling,” he says, as Big Ben begins to solemnly chime, calling in Christmas Day, “are a wonder.”

 

* * *

 

“Uh, Eames?”

Eames grunts into his pillow in acknowledgement. It’s barely 9am and Arthur knows waking Eames up this early is asking a lot.

Especially on Christmas morning. 

“Do you think- do you think we could do presents now? Like, right now?” Arthur asks hesitantly from the doorway.

Eames groans and rolls onto his back. He’s shirtless, the dark ink of his tattoos spilled across his shoulders and chest a stark contrast to the crisp white sheets. It’s enough to make Arthur seriously consider getting back out of his sweats and climbing into bed with him again.

 Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur, catching him looking. “What I would like to know is what has happened to our Christmas tradition of morning sex before breakfast, hmm?” His voice is low and just-woke-up-husky, and Arthur tries his level best to ignore it.

“Well I’m afraid this year,” Arthur struggles behind the door with Eames’ Present, “it really can’t wait.”

The Present whines in his arms, wriggling desperately.

Eames sits bolt upright. His hair is everywhere, 3 day-old stubble across his chin and sleep crusting in the corners of his eyes. Arthur thinks he looks perfect.

“Arthur,” he says suddenly very much awake, “please tell me you aren’t about to introduce me to your illegitimate child.”

Arthur rolls his eyes but gives in and steps into the bedroom. The golden retriever puppy is squirming and huffing in his arms and he has to fight to keep a hold of her. 

“Oh Arthur,” Eames says, his eyes immediately gone soft, “oh _Arthur.”_

“This is Daisy,” Arthur manages, juggling the armful of over-excited puppy, “and I know I probably should have asked you about her in advance, and I _really_ know this goes against the whole ‘get a dog for life not for Christmas’ thing, as the guy in the pound made pretty clear, but we’ve got the roof garden and Emily two floors down said she’d love to look after her when we’re away and I just thought- well you talk a lot about Sandy when you were a kid and I am okay with dogs really once I get to know them-“ 

Arthur’s rambling, he knows he is, and thank god Eames shuts him up by getting up and out of bed and meeting him halfway across the room.

Eames wordlessly takes Daisy from him, cradling her, broad hand under her fluffy bottom and she almost instantly stops huffing, preferring to lick the scruff under Eames’ chin instead. He laughs and coos down at her and Arthur can’t help but smile- all worries about this being a bad idea fading away. 

“Arthur,” Eames says, awed, like he’s all of 4 years old, “you got me a _puppy_. For _Christmas._ ”

“She’s a golden retriever,” Arthur says, somewhat lamely, “I thought it was appropriate, to, to- I don’t know, keep away the Black Dog. I thought she might help.”

It sounds stupid when he puts it into words, the idea he’s been harboring in secret for months each time Eames quotes Churchill in an effort to avoid saying ‘depression’, but Eames gives him a look that takes Arthur’s breath away and he knows it was the right thing to say.

Eames leans over the puppy in his arms and kisses him hard; they haven’t kissed like that in months and the recognition of it shudders down Arthur’s spine, a welcome reminder.

“Let it be said here and now that Arthur, youngest recruit on the International Dream Sharing Programme, best Point Man in the bloody business and general hardcore badass, is also the most wonderful, romantic and sentimental partner anyone could hope for.”

Arthur blushes furiously, and kisses Eames again to prevent him from saying anything else ridiculously embarrassing.

It's only later, when Daisy has decimated all of their tinsel and chewed the toes of one of Arthur's very favourite pairs of leather Oxfords (Arthur lets it go, just) and Eames is lying prone on the couch with a puppy curled up napping on his chest, point blank refusing to help in any of the Christmas-lunch preparation- "Arthur there's a sleeping puppy on me- you can't possibly expect me to ever move again"- that Eames catches his eye, expression impossibly fond.

"Thank you," he mouths, over The Waitresses blaring from the radio. Snow is piling up on the window sill outside, and the Queen is talking about hope in a time of darkness on the television.

Arthur just smiles and goes back to chopping parsnips with military precision.

 

* * *

 

Ariadne’s birthday is in early March and she absolutely hates it. Christmas is long gone and it’s cold and empty and depressing and because she’s on a ‘new page of the calendar’ as her aunties always complain people always forget.

In amongst the piles of letters and cards Aurielle presents to her in bed, Ariadne picks one out straight away from someone who never forgets. 

She would recognise Arthur’s cramped, fluid cursive from a mile off.

Arthur has booked them an all-inclusive weekend at a top hotel in New York and Aurielle is ecstatic, immediately stealing the black and gold tickets from Ariadne to snapchat them to all of their friends. Ariadne tips the envelope, looking for a letter or card, but instead, several Polaroids slip out onto the bedcovers.

There are four pictures. The first is of an enormous sand-duned beach, beach grass swaying in the bottom of the frame, an endless sky of gold and pink tinted clouds filling the rest of the picture and a figure that can only be Arthur in his knee-length navy coat with his back to the photographer, looking out over the ocean. 

The second is of a friendly seal-faced dog, more of an over-sized puppy really, grinning at the camera, with it’s tongue lolling out of it’s mouth, fluffy ears clumped together, clearly still salty damp from the sea.

The third is of Eames. He’s knelt in the wet sand, trousers sodden, his arms full of the dog who is in the process of licking Eames’ chin. Eames’ head is thrown back mid-laugh, hand precariously out behind him to catch his balance as the dog tries to climb into his lap-

The last one is a selfie, almost blurred and at a terrible angle. Eames has the camera, and is kissing Arthur on the cheek. Arthur looks halfway between disgruntled and quietly pleased, eyes downcast, cheeks faintly flushed, his hair curling more than usual in the sea breeze. 

On the back of the last Polaroid, Arthur has written a note:

 

_Happy Birthday Ari,_

_Thought you’d like to see some photos of Daisy; Eames is besotted, but mostly very happy. We both are._

_Sending all our love. Looking forward to seeing you soon x_

 


End file.
